


The Beginning

by beetle



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: LOTR, M/M, The Hobbit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:52:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the LJ hobbit_kink prompt: "Dwarves only fall in love once. Fili falls for Bilbo. Hobbits believe in commitment and loyalty, and when Bilbo falls for Fili, he is all with him. Smut with romance and fluff. Bonus for showing BAMF!Bilbo. Maybe he takes down an Orc or a warg defending Fili, or Kili, like he did with Thorin. Just show that even though he is a Hobbit, that doesn't mean weak."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Spoiler-ish, but only if you squint. AU, because I took liberties with the fight scene at the end of the movie.
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own, so don't sue.

It starts, Fili supposes, when Mister Baggins saves all their lives.  
  
Tied to a spit, his own life flashing before his eyes repeatedly, all Fili, son of Dis, can see is the orange of the fire and the blue-black, star-speckled sky. All he can hear is the crackle of flames, the prattle of hungry trolls, and suddenly . . . their burglar. . . .  
  
Saying  _something_  about infections . . . and parasites in tubes. And the troll prattle pauses . . . and Fili could  _kiss_  Mister Baggins, were he not covered in troll snot.  
  
But then come the voices of the others who are  _not_  tied to the spit, cursing their burglar—Kili's loudest of all, saying he does  _not_  have parasites. That  _their burglar_  has parasites.  
  
Fili could cheerfully murder his brother, if the trolls didn't eat them first.  
  
But then Gandalf arrives, quite unexpectedly, and in a bright ray of dawn, their tormentors are so much ugly stone in the early morning light.  
  
Sooner, rather than later, Fili is being helped from the spit by none other than his brother and Mister Baggins. The former gets a smack upside the head, occasioning an  _ow, what was_ that _for?_  
  
The latter gets a hug. Despite the troll snot. And when he hugs Fili back, none of that silly back-pounding, his laugh is relieved and somewhat bemused, Fili hugs him all the harder. His own relief turns his body to water and for a few moments, anyway, Mister Baggins is his holding him up.  
  


*

  
  
It continues when they find themselves in Rivendell, clean and comfortable for the first time in weeks.  
  
Everyone is light of heart and merry—well, everyone except for Thorin, and even he seems somewhat lighter of mood than usual. He, Gandalf, Balin, and Lord Elrond disappear early in the evening and aren't missed terribly because everyone else in the company is drunk on ale and elvish wine—which really packs a punch, despite its floral taste—except for Ori and their esteemed burglar, Mister Baggins.  
  
Fili and Kili, propped up in chairs in a corner, watch as Bofur tells a story that, despite the general drunkenness, grabs everyone's attention. Well, almost everyone's. Fili has been staring at Mister Baggins, who really is, now that Fili's safe and sheltered enough to be noticing such things, rather pretty. Especially the curve of his mouth when he smiles. And the directness of his gaze . . . especially when said gaze is focused so solemnly on Fili.  
  
Fili realizes he's been staring at exactly the same time Mister Baggins does, only instead of blushing and looking away, as Mister Baggins does, Fili finds he can't look away.  
  
And even if he could, he wouldn't want to.  
  
“Where're you goin'?” Kili asks when Fili stands up, shoving his tankard at his brother, who takes it and finishes it in two long swallows.  
  
“Where do you think?” Fili says, and leaves Kili to draw his own conclusions. Then he takes the most circuitous way out of the room, one that leads him past Mister Baggins. Fili catches their burglar's eye and nods toward the doorway before exiting, himself.  
  
Down the hall from their room, in an open-air gallery, Fili leans against a column and waits for their burglar to show himself. He doesn't have to wait long. Mister Baggins appears on cat-feet, dressed in his cream-colored shirt, his brown waistcoat, and brown breeches, looking as if he belongs in a library, not on a quest, in the company of dwarves.  
  
This realization makes Fili's stomach twist into knots.  
  
“You wanted to see me?” Mister Baggins asks, still solemn and blushing. Fili smiles a little and takes a few steps toward him.  
  
“I never really got a chance to thank you for what you did, back there—stalling those trolls,” Fili says softly, smiling. “That was dead brilliant, by the way.”  
  
“Oh, that.” Mister Baggins waves away Fili's praise. “It wouldn't have worked if Gandalf hadn't been so near. I don't know how long I could've kept that up, to be honest.”  
  
“Well, it worked for as long as it needed to, and that's what matters.” Fili closes the distance between them a little more and Mister Baggins swallows visibly, looking up into Fili's eyes.  
  
“Was there, er, anything else you wanted to, ah, see me about?” he asks, turning red from his cheeks, all the way back to the very tips of his pointed ears. Fili's smile becomes a grin.  
  
“Actually, yes . . . I was wanting to know if, well . . . if there's someone.” Fili waves a hand in the general direction of the Shire when Mister Baggins' look turns puzzled. “Someone waiting for you back in Hobbiton.”  
  
Mister Baggins still looks puzzled. “Waiting for me? You mean like an obligation. . . ?”  
  
“I mean like a lover,” Fili corrects, stepping close enough that he can smell Mister Baggins: a mixture of mild elvish soap, clean skin, and something fresh and faint, like unplucked strawberries smelled at a distance. Fili's caught hints of that scent before—the first and strongest time, of course, being when he first entered Bag End, stepping past a surprised Mister Baggins. It'd brought him up short, for a moment, Kili bumping into his back with a muttered, “Steady on, then!”  
  
Now, instead of stopping him in his tracks, the scent urges him on, closer, till he's in Mister Baggins' personal space. “I mean someone who's courting you . . . plighting troth . . . someone to whom you are promised. A suitor.”  
  
Mister Baggins' eyes widen and when he blinks, it's several times, in rapid succession. “Why—of _course_  not! I couldn't very well go haring off on an adventure when I have that sort of . . . commitment holding me in Hobbiton. No,” he shakes his head and makes a sweeping gesture with both hands. “I am in no way attached to anyone in Hobbiton in such a fashion . . . though out of curiosity . . . why do you ask?”  
  
Fili clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “I ask because, well, since you are without a suitor, I'd like to apply for that position.”  
  
If Fili'd thought Mister Baggins' eyes couldn't get any wider, or his pupils more dilated, he was wrong. Now, those saucer-wide eyes are nearly all pupil, with only the thinnest ring of sky blue around them.  
  
“Hang on, a moment—you . . . that is,  _you_  . . . want to suit  _me_? I mean,  _be my suitor_?” Mister Baggins stammers, holding up his hands as if to forestall any further commentary. “'Suitor,' as in . . .  _suitor_?”  
  
Fili nods once. “Aye. As in, I wish to court you, Bilbo Baggins.”  
  
Mister Baggins goggles up at him, then shakes his head as if to clear it, smiling. “Ah, this is some sort of jest, right? Has Kili followed me out here? Where is he?” He looks over both shoulders, then turns around, straining to see back the way they came.  
  
Fili, prepared for rejection, is quite unprepared for  _this_. He rolls his eyes and grabs Mister Baggins' shoulders and turns him back around. Mister Baggins is still smiling that knowing smile, as if he's caught Fili in the midst of a prank. Which rankles somewhat.  
  
“I'm not—this isn't a jest, Mister Baggins.” Fili hauls Mister Baggins closer, till that knowing smile turns confused, and then fades slowly away. “I am deadly serious in this matter. I could not be more so.”  
  
“Right,” Mister Baggins snorts, smiling again and rolling his eyes. Then he meets Fili's gaze and squints, and that smile disappears again. “Wait a minute, you're—you're really  _serious_  about this suitor-business?”  
  
Relieved, Fili nods once more. “Completely, Mister Baggins. Dwarves do not jest about something as important as love.”  
  
“ _Love_?” Mister Baggins squeaks, loking around again, as if Kili might be hiding somewhere, after all. Then he looks back at Fili, an expression of disbelief and fright on his face. “B-but . . . we don't even know each other—“  
  
“Hence me paying court to you. What I know of you, I like. What I learn of you, will determine if I love you. And, I should hope, the process would be reciprocal.” Fili sighs, shaking  _his_  head, now. “I cannot offer you much, in the way of the traditional gifts of gold and jewels. Not until Erebor is retaken. But know that I am as sincere in my plight as is possible, and that one day, I will more than make up for my current lack.”  
  
Fili's hands slide from Mister Baggins' shoulders, down his arms, to his soft, slender hands, which are chilled from the night air.  
  
“But—“ Mister Baggins searches Fili's eyes as if for some last sign of a jest and, finding none, his brow furrows. “But—I'm not a dwarf!”  
  
“So I've noticed.” Fili smiles, squeezing the chilly, seemingly delicate hands in his own warmer, rougher ones. “You're far more lovely than any dwarf I've ever seen. Even those silly feet of yours.”  
  
“My feet are  _not_  silly,” Mister Baggins huffs, his face coming over all haughty for a few moments. Then that half-confused, half-terrified look is back. “I'm also, in case you hadn't noticed,  _male_!”  
  
“I  _had_  noticed, let me assure you.” Fili, without letting go of Mister Baggins' hands, wraps his arms around Mister Baggins' waist, in effect, trapping his arms behind his back. Fili then pull a half-heartedly protesting Mister Baggins against him. “To my utter distraction, Mister Baggins, I've  _noticed_.”  
  
“Oh . . . then I take it that you, er,  _like_ —“ Mister Baggins' blush could light up the night. “Well, that's all fine and dandy for  _you_ , Master Fili, but how do you know  _I_  like . . . well, my own gender? After all, there are many fanciable elvish women about, and—and—” here, Mister Baggins trails off, as Fili's leaning closer now, close enough that he can all but taste that fresh strawberries-scent.  
  
“What're you—?” Mister Baggins begins lowly, his voice cracking as Fili's nose brushes his nose, followed by Fili's lips brushing his lips.  
  
Fili presses his mouth to Mister Baggins', then parts his lips, his tongue darting out to coax Mister Baggins' lips open. It doesn't take as much coaxing as he'd thought it would have. Then Fili's chasing after that elusive fresh strawberries-taste, his hands opening when Mister Baggins tugs on his wrists to free them. Those hands go to Fili's chest, and just when Fili thinks he's about to be pushed away, those hands slide over his shoulders, to link behind his neck.  
  
Fili's own arms circle Mister Baggin's narrow waist and pull him closer.  
  
When the kiss ends naturally, their lips parting with several smaller, sweeter kisses, they lean their heads together, breathing in the night air quickly and deeply, their breath forming one faint white plume above their heads.  
  
“Will you accept my suit, Mister Baggins?”  
  
Mister Baggins nods. “Y-yes. I believe I will,” he murmurs, one hand drifting to Fili's face, cupping it tenderly. “But only if you'll call me  _Bilbo_.”  
  
Fili smiles. “Bilbo,” he says, leaning back to look at Bilbo. He's blushing still, his cheeks rosy and lovely. His lips are pink and kiss-swollen, and his eyes, though shy and darting, are sparkling.  
  
And when he smiles that nervous, sweet, hopeful smile . . . Fili's heart takes up residence in his throat.  
  
 _I'm a goner,_  he thinks, but he can't be bothered to care when Bilbo tentatively leans in to kiss him again.  
  


*

  
  
There's not much time, after that, for troth-plighting, what with fleeing Rivendell in the wee hours and trekking up into the mountains.  
  
The mountains. . . .  
  
Before the horror of the stone giants fighting it out, there'd been, here and there, moments of secret closeness. Kisses shared while gathering firewood, looks exchanged while packing their gear. Even walking together, shoulders bumping and fingers brushing, on the occasions Kili decided to walk next to someone else (usually Bofur, and Fili, not missing the way the toymaker looked at his little brother, often wished for a shovel . . . just to make a point).  
  
Before the travail of the mountains . . . just before the worst of the weather—the wind and the rain—before the giants battling, Thorin found out about them.  
  
Fili and Bilbo had gone off while the others were busy setting up camp. Ostensibly to find something—anything—in these rocky climes that would burn. But the search had turned into shoulder-bumping, finger-brushing, hand-holding, and, in very short order, kissing.  
  
Then the kissing had turned into something . . .  _more_.  
  
Fili'd had Bilbo pinned against a rocky outcropping, his body hot and hard and pressing relentlessly into Bilbo's. Bilbo's arms were wound around Fili's neck, his legs wrapped around Fili's waist, and his head thrown back as Fili kissed his throat and ground that restless hardness against him, strong hands holding up Bilbo's thighs.  
  
This was how Thorin came upon them.  
  
Bilbo's startled gasp alerted Fili to the fact that they were no longer alone, and he let go of Bilbo, spinning around, ax already drawn.  
  
“I expected better of you, Fili,” Thorin said, ignoring the axe and Bilbo, his dark blue eyes nearly black in the twilight. “I'll continue to expect better of you in the future. As my heir—“  
  
“He's my love, Uncle. The  _one_.” Fili squared his shoulders and stood as straight as he could, putting away his ax. “I've offered to pay him court and he's accepted. Upon the retaking of Erebor . . . I plan to marry him. If he'll have me.”  
  
For the first time ever, Fili got to see Thorin utterly gobsmacked. It was an oddly satisfying feeling. Behind him, Bilbo gasped, one hand coming up to rest on Fili's shoulder. “Fili, I. . . .”  
  
And Fili turned his back on a sputtering Thorin, went down on one knee, and took Bilbo's hand in his own. He looked up into Bilbo's startled blue eyes and smiled. “I know I haven't much to offer you now, but as a prince of Erebor, I'll be able to dress you in gold and jewels, every day for the rest of your life. And I'll make sure that your life is never wanting for security, safety, and love.”  
  
Bilbo's blue eyes were shining. “Fili, I—“  
  
“I  _forbid_  this union!” Thorin cut in to say, and before Fili could turn to refute Thorin's prohobition, hands were pulling him away from Bilbo. “You  _are_  a prince of Erebor! Do you understand what that means?” Thorin hissed at him, dragging him to his feet. He interposed himself between Fili and Bilbo. “That means you can't plight your troth to every port in a storm!”  
  
Fili glared, daring to shove Thorin away from him. It was the second time in his life he ever got to see Thorin gobsmacked. “How  _dare_  you? He's my  _love_ , Thorin. Or do you even remember what it's like to love someone!”  
  
Actually leaning back as if stung, Thorin glared right back. “I remember what it's like to be your age, and  _think_  I was in love with the right person. And when I found out how wrong I was. . . .” Thorin shook his head, visibly trying to calm himself. “I cannot allow this union to take place. And it is your responsibility as my heir—“  
  
“Then maybe I don't want to  _be_  your heir!” Fili blurted out. And in the silence that followed, Fili sighed. “Maybe I don't want to rule Erebor. Maybe I just want to live my own life, without being bound by the strictures of kingship. Maybe I don't want the responsibility, the cares, the  _burden_ of an entire people on my shoulders.”  
  
Thorin looked very weary in that moment, but bore up under it, as he had under everything else. “Fili, you're very young—you don't know  _what_  you want—“  
  
“I know that if you're asking me to choose between a throne and the person that I love, I choose _love_!”  
  
“Wait, Fili,” Bilbo said softly, and in his surprise, even Thorin turned to look at him. His clothes were still askew from Fili's pawing but Bilbo had never looked more somber and serious. “Maybe . . . he's right. We never stopped to think about what would happen if we . . . I mean, it's all well and good that we're so fond of each other—“  
  
“I'm not  _fond_  of you, Bilbo Baggins,” Fili corrected, shouldering his way past Thorin to take Bilbo in his arms. But Bilbo held up a hand, effectively stopping him. “I  _love_  you!”  
  
“And I. . . .” Bilbo looked down for a moment. And when he looked back up, his eyes were dry and inscrutable. “I only want what's best for you. And that's not, despite what you think, giving up your family and your people. Not for me.”  
  
Fili froze, his arms still held out. “What're you saying, love?”  
  
Bilbo flinched, but didn't look away from Fili. “I'm saying that . . . maybe we rushed into this, Fili. We certainly didn't give any thought to where it was going, or the consequences that would follow. We never stopped to think that we might not be allowed to just—go about our merry way and be left alone.”  
  
Shaking his head, Fili's arms were now held out in supplication. “I never expected it to be easy, when the rest of the world found out about us. I knew exactly what it might come down to, someday.” He glanced at Thorin, who was watching them both intently. “I don't want your throne. Give it to Kili.”  _That is if you can pry him and Bofur apart for more than five seconds._  
  
“You would throw away your responsibilities so easily— _the_  responsibility you were  _born_  to?” Thorin asked as if dreading and fearing the response. But before Fili could answer, Bilbo was slipping past him, and past Thorin.  
  
“No, he won't. He doesn't . . . I'm sorry, Fili, but no. I can't marry you,” he said in a strange, choked voice. “This was all a mistake. We should never have—“  
  
But Fili doesn't get to hear what they should never have, because Bilbo's gone, around another rocky outcropping.  
  
“Well,” Thorin said gruffly, not meeting Fili's devastated gaze when it landed on him—instead glaring off into the the lowering gloom. “At least the halfling came to his senses.”  
  
Fili's hands balled up into fists and he took a step toward Thorin. “Do you have any idea what you've done?”  
  
“And hopefully,  _you'll_  come to your senses, too, someday.” Thorin crossed his arms and lowered his chin, as if daring Fili onward. But Fili, suddenly emptied of everything but the yawning, abyssal sensation of being  _alone_ , forced his fists open and turned away from his uncle for the second time that night.  
  
“Bilbo is not Thranduil, Thorin,” he said quietly enough that it allowed him to practically hear every muscle in Thorin's body stiffen. “And I'm not you.”  
  
Thorin only replied as Fili was walking away, back toward the company. Back toward Bilbo. “Perhaps not. But he's no fit companion for a future king.”  
  
“You're wrong,” Fili tossed over his shoulder. “You're so very wrong.”  
  
“Prove it!” Thorin called after him, and Fili's shoulders hunched. Because, despite feeling in his bones that not only was Bilbo a fit companion for himself, but a fit companion for a  _king_ , he _couldn't_  prove it.  
  
It was just a feeling he had. And Thorin didn't respect his own feelings, let alone the feelings of anyone else.  
  
Back at the campsite, Bilbo was sitting off by himself, staring into the fire forlornly. Fili, uncertain whether to pursue or wait and watch, sat next to his brother and Bofur, who had been getting quite cozy with one another of late.  
  
As the fire finally got going—without Bilbo and Fili's nonexistent contributions—Fili was just about to risk a scene by going over and forcing the hobbit to see reason, when Thorin arrived back at the campsite and sat next to Fili, putting a hand on his shoulder.  
  
Suddenly angered almost beyond reason, Fili shrugged it off and got up, stalking off into the darkess. He did not notice the way Bilbo's shining eyes followed him desperately.  
  
Thorin, however, did, and frowned.  
  


*

  
  
After that, night—there's barely any time for such niceties as familial drama. There is only the mountains and survival.  
  
When they're climbing, there's no room for anything but one foot above the other. And when they're not climbing, they're too tired do anything but eat their quick, cold meals, and go straight to sleep.  
  
Though sometimes . . . Fili could swear he feels Bilbo's gaze on him. But whenever he glances over at the hobbit, those melancholy blue eyes are always on something else.  
  
There's never a chance to simply go over to Bilbo and  _talk_. Thorin's always got an eye on them both, and keeps the whole company moving at a pace that makes unnecessary conversation almost impossible.  
  
And for Bilbo's part, he seems to be working very hard to avoid Fili.  
  
 _I love you_ , Fili's whole being cries out whenever he looks at Bilbo. He doesn't bother to hide it, anymore. Even Kili, who's been sleeping near Bofur, lately, has taken time from his . . . their . . . whatever they have, to notice his brother's pining for what it is.  
  
“Tell him how you feel, Fili,” Kili puffs as they're climbing, one afternoon. Fili snorts out air he can little afford to snort.  
  
“He already knows how I feel, Kili.”  
  
“So . . . he doesn't feel the same?”  
  
Fili concentrates on the next handhold perhaps more than is necessary. “I'm fairly certain he does.”  
  
Kili slips, and only catches himself at the cost of bloodying his palm. “Ow—bloody damned mountain! Then what's the problem?”  
  
Fili glares at the mountain face. “Apparently neither he nor Thorin think he's a suitable companion for a king.”  
  
After that, he and Kili climb in silence for awhile. Then Kili asks: “So . . . what're you going to do?”  
  
That's the very question Fili's been asking himself for nearly a week. His answer is the same today, as it had been on the first day:  
  
“I don't know.”  
  


*

  
  
Shortly after that . . . the giants. . . .  
  
There are several near misses—near  _deaths_ , the final one being Bilbo's. But Thorin . . . Thorin saves the hobbit's life apparently without a thought for his own.  
  
Later, as they prepare to settle in for the night, Bilbo having thanked Thorin once, humbly, in front of everyone—only to receive a glare for his gratitude—Fili feels it's his turn.  
  
He and Thorin haven't been on speaking terms since that night. . . .  
  
He approaches his uncle while Thorin and Balin are speaking together quietly. “A word with you, if I may, Uncle.”  
  
Thorin and Balin look at him, Balin smiling kindly, as always.  
  
“Of course,” Thorin says, nodding at Balin, who takes himself off with a bow to Thorin and a pat to Fili's shoulder. “What is it you wish to speak about?”  
  
Fili hangs his head for a moment, then takes a deep breath and humbles himself mightily. “You saved his life.”  
  
Thorin tenses up and Fili goes on before he can say anything. “There's nothing I can say but _thank you_. No way I can repay you for—“  
  
“You can repay me by putting an end to this courting and pining nonsense once and for all,” Thorin interrupts him to say grimly. “You can promise me to take up your responsibilities as heir with no more moaning about lost love.”  
  
Fili's mouth drops open. “But—“  
  
Thorin steps closer, his voice dropping as he puts a hand on Fili's arm. “If I do not survive this journey, then the task of caring for our people will fall to you, as eldest sister-son. Promise me, that should this journey go ill for me, you  _will_  care for our people and lead them as wisely and justly as you may.”  
  
Fili grits his teeth and looks away. Across the cave, at where Bilbo is preparing his bedroll. He looks so . . . small and alone, and all Fili wants is to hold him. To lie with him. To simply  _be_  with him.  
  
But he looks at Thorin, who'd followed his gaze with a moue of distaste. Then those dark blue eyes are on Fili again. “Please, Fili. For our people.”  
  
Hanging his head again, Filis lets tears well up in his eyes for a moment before blinking them away completely. When he looks up, his face is a stone mask, his eyes dry.  
  
“I promise,” he says, and Thorin nods, squeezing his shoulder.  
  
“Aye, I knew I could count on you, in the end. You're a good lad. And you'll be a good king,” he promises.  
  
“Let us hope it doesn't come to that, Uncle.” Fili says, shaking his head, but Thorin smiles ruefully.  
  
“It will, some day or other. And when it does . . . I know you'll do right by our people.”  
  
“Will you excuse me?” Fili asks suddenly. “I need some fresh air.”  
  
“In  _this_  weather?” Thorin looks at him strangely. Fili tries to smile.  
  
“I'll be a few moments, only.” Then he's walking away from his uncle, to the mouth of the cave and outside. A few feet one from the entrance, he falls to his knees and throws up over the precipice.  
  


*

  
  
After that, everything happens so fast—the goblins, and  _Gandalf_ —Fili barely has time to wonder where Bilbo is, only be glad that he appears to have somehow got away.  
  
 _Don't stop till you reach the Shire, love_ , he thinks desperately as the fellowship, minus one, runs from the madding goblin hordes, away from the ruins of the broken bridge and toward sunlight. And that's the last he dares to think of Bilbo until Bilbo actually appears, like magic, just after they've made their escape.  
  
And it's all Fili can do not to grab the hobbit and hug him close. To cover him in kisses and declarations of love for the whole company to see—though he's fairly certain that by now, the company's quite aware of his feelings for thier erstwhile burglar.  
  
But he remembers his promise to Thorin, and stands silent, only to be bowled over by Bilbo's own promise to help them recover their home. In that moment he realizes that the love that he feels will never be put behind him. Will never be  _truly_  hidden. No matter how many promises he makes to Thorin, he will  _always_  love Bilbo Baggins, and that love will be with him every day of his life. . . .  
  
Then a howl goes up from too nearby for Fili's comfort.  
  
Wargs.  
  
Everything is suddenly in flux again, everyone is running for their lives—battling warg scouts and climbing trees before the main party arrives with their orc masters.  
  
One of whom, it turns out, is a pale orc who is missing an arm.  
  
Fili shares a glance with his brother because it  _can't_  be, can it? That orc is dead . . . Azog the defiler is  _dead_  by Thorin's own hand.  
  
Only he's not, and Thorin is very much aware of this fact, as he's climbing out of his tree and approaching the orc, sword drawn.  
  
Gandalf, meanwhile is tossing burning pine cones everywhere—Kili with him. Soon, Fili and the other dwarves have begun to do the same. Till the whole cliff, it seems, is ablaze. The scene it illuminates is not a hopeful one.  
  
This time, this battle, for whatever reason, it seems that Thorin's not quite up to the challenge Azog poses. Azog's warg gets a hold of Thorin, shakes him, then tosses him like a child's ragdoll.  
  
“No!” Fili and Kili call, scrambling down from their own tree, ready to die defending their uncle.  
  
But Bilbo gets there, first.  
  
His sword drawn, visibly shaking, but with shoulders squared, he strides onto the battlefield, then throws himself between the Thorin and the orc that's obviously about to kill him.  
  
“ _No_!” Fili roars again, frozen, and certain he's about to see the one he loves die—when Bilbo dodges the orc's first blow and stabs it in the heart with his sword.  
  
Everyone bearing witness seems shocked—none more so than Bilbo and the orc he'd stabbed. But mixed in with Fili's shock is pride and a love so fierce and sure, it leaves him breathless for a moment.  
  
The orc falls down, dead and Kili cheers. Fili glances at him, grinning. “Not a fit companion for a king, my  _arse_!” Spurred on, he rushes forward as the white warg is advancing on Bilbo, who still defends Thorin as best he can from his fallen position.  
  
Another warg puts itself between Fili and Bilbo and for its presumption, gets cut down, as do several other wargs, when the other dwarves climb out of their trees to take the battle to the orcs and cut a path to Thorin and Bilbo.  
  
A sudden screech shatters the fire-lit night and there are . . . giant birds . . . giant  _eagles_  stooping on the cliff—on the  _wargs_. Fili's still trying to fight his way to Bilbo and Thorin when an eagle catches him in one set of talons and Kili in the other, and they're up and away, Bilbo and Thorin getting smaller and smaller.  
  
“No! Take me back! Take me  _back_ , you overgrown feather-duster!” Fili screams, flailing and nearly dropping his axe.  
  
It's only when he gives up struggling that he sees an eagle stoop near Bilbo and Thorin, and when it lifts off . . . they're no longer on the ground.  
  
But Azog, it would appear, still lives. He watches the eagles carry them off with a hot hatred Fili can feel even from such a height and distance.  
  


*

  
  
When the eagles finally deposit them on firm ground, the sun is risen, though not yet climbed the vault of heaven.  
  
Having done their duty, the eagles take off without further ado, and Fili watches them fly for several moments, before he's recalled to the situation at hand.  
  
He turns to see Gandalf bent over Thorin, and Bilbo . . . Bilbo standing off to the side, anxious, but obviously unwilling to insert himself where he's not sure he's welcome. Fili starts toward him, but Kili puts a hand on his arm.  
  
“Look! He's awake!”  
  
And Thorin is, indeed, waking up.  _Sitting up_ , with Gandalf's help, looking much the worse for wear. Relief, greater than any Fili's ever felt comes over him in waves—relief that his uncle is _alive_ , and relief that his king is not dead.  
  
 _Someday,_ I _may be king,_  he thinks with great weariness.  _Maybe even a great king. But that day isn't_ to _day._  
  
Thorin struggles to his feet, sword in hand. He sheathes it and his intense gaze scours the group as if looking for someone. Then, finally, they land on Bilbo, off to the side and alone.  
  
“You!” Thorin says hoarsely. “What were you doing? You nearly got yourself killed! Did I not say that you would be a burden, that you would not survive in the wild and that you have no place amongst us?”   
  
At each word, Bilbo seems to wilt more, to shrink into himself. At each word, Fili's anger mounts, unto the only thing holding him back is Kili's restraining hand squeezing his arm.  
  
Thorin advances on Bilbo quickly, so quickly that Fili expects him to to throttle Bilbo— _well, he'll_ try, Fili thinks grimly, finally freeing his own arm—but instead, Thorin grabs Bilbo and pulls him into a rough, sudden embrace.  
  
“I've never been so wrong in all my life!” he says in a rush, hugging Bilbo tight. And like the contents of a punctured water skin, Fili's anger runs out of him, replaced by yet more relief.  
  
Smiles go around the company, and Kili claps Fili's back. Fili only has eyes for the embracing pair, and when, shortly afer the embrace ends, Bilbo suggests that the worst may be behind them, Fili merely watches and wonders.  
  


*

  
  
The scramble off of the high place on which they find themselves proves to be rather arduous, and leaves little time for talk,  
  
When they reach the good Earth by midmorning, everyone is relieved and happy. And hungry. Their supplies are, of course, gone, but everyone decides that the rest of the day can and will be spent in rest and recuperation, for Thorin's wounds though not serious, are certainly somewhat debilitating.  
  
The company does, however, travel just far enough to reach a narrow river Oin had spotted in their clamber down of that great rock pile. Bofur's the first to start looking for a yard stick. Gandalf, from the depths of his robes, provides a ball of twine.  
  
“I'll look for nightcrawlers!” Ori volunteers, and no one gainsays him or offers to help.  
  
Fili finds himself looking around for Bilbo. When he finds the hobbit, standing near Thorin, it's to see those considering blue eyes on him.  
  


*

  
  
After an excellent lunch of fried fish, most of the company's ready—more than ready—to pick up from where they'd left off, when they'd been so rudely interrupted by the goblins' trap.  
  
There's no bedding to unroll, so everyone just picks a spot that's relatively free of rocks, and lays down. Most of the company is asleep in minutes, excluding Gandalf, who never seems to sleep; Fili, who's too keyed up to sleep; and Thorin, who's obviously too discomfitted by his wounds to sleep.  
  
But he also obviously has something on his mind. He stares off into the foliage, watching it shift in the breezes, and the light change.  
  
Eventually, Gandalf gets up and mutters something about scouting ahead, then is gone.  
  
“The wizard is restless,” Thorin notes tersely. Fili, from across the banked fire, which he's currently poking at with a stick, nods.  
  
“Apparently  _he_  doesn't think the worst is behind us.”  
  
“Mm.” Thorin sighs, standing up laboriously himself and circling the fire. When he's at Fili's side he sits gingerly, heavily. “But the halfling's optimism is infectious. And perhaps he's right. Perhaps the worst is  _done_.”  
  
“Perhaps.”  
  
Fili can feel Thorin's eyes on him, and it makes him poke at the kindling even more.  
  
“Fili—“ Thorin begins at the same time as Fili says: “I'm tired, I think I'll—“  
  
“You'll sit right here, for the time being, and we'll talk, as we haven't done in long and long,” Thorin says, not unkindly, putting an arm around Fili, who tenses for a few moments, then relaxes. Thorin sighs again. “Or have things gone so sour between us, Fili?”  
  
Fili sighs, too, dropping the stick and looking at Thorin squarely. “You are the only father I have ever known, Thorin,” he says, though what that's apropos of, he has no idea. But Thorin seems to understand, because he nods and smiles.  
  
“And a finer pair of sons a man could not ask for, in you and Kili.”  
  
“All my life, I've worked so hard to make you proud of me. To make you not regret having me as your heir. . . .”  
  
“And I've never once regretted it,” Thorin says plainly, but Fili snorts.  
  
“I can think of one time I'm fairly certain you did.”  
  
Silence, weighted and charged, falls between them, unbroken, save for the snores and snorts of their comrades.  
  
“I can't help whom I love,” Fili finally says, looking at Thorin again, who's brooding down at the banked embers Fili had just been prodding. “I love Bilbo Baggins.”  
  
“But  _why_? Can you tell me why?”  
  
Fili scoffs. “He saved your life! Or have you already forgotten?”  
  
Thorin smiles a little. “You loved him before that, Fili. You've said as much. And I'm asking why? I'm willing to  _listen_  to why.”  
  
“Why did you love Thranduil?” Fili dares, and Thorin's jaw clenches tightly . . . but then releases. In that moment he looks melancholy and old.  
  
“Because I was a fool.” He glances at Fili, who looks away, sorry he'd asked. “He was . . . beautiful, and I was a fool.”  
  
“Then maybe that's why I love Bilbo. Because he's beautiful, and I'm a fool.”  
  
Silence falls again, more grim than uncomfortable.  
  
“I'll do as I promised, because I am sworn, and can do nothing else.” Fili stands up, dusting off his breeches. “But I can't pretend that a large part of me doesn't hate you for demanding of me that I give up the one thing I've ever wanted for myself.”  
  
“Fili, sit down.”  
  
“Why? So we can continue this lovely discussion that's going absolutely nowhere? No, thanks.”  
  
“Because I told you so, and don't make me have to tell you again,” Thorin says calmly, glancing up at his surprised nephew. “ _Sit_.”  
  
Huffing and rolling his eyes, Fili sits again, but refuses to look at Thorin, who takes up the stick and starts poking at the remains of the fire, himself.  
  
“You think, in the way of all young people, that your elders are merely out to see you as miserable as possible, when nothing could be further from the truth, Fili.” He frowns at the embers. “I want nothing more than to see you and Kili thriving. Prosperous. Secure. Happy.”  
  
Fili snorts bitterly and sees, from the corner of his eyes, Thorin look over at him, smiling that small smile.  
  
“You couldn't have done like your brother and lost your heart to a dwarf?”  
  
Fili's eyes widen and he risks another look at Thorin. But his uncle doesn't appear to be angered. “You know about that?”  
  
“How could I not? They're about as subtle as a troll mating dance.” Thorin laughs quietly, wistfully. “Bofur is a brave and honorable warrior, and kind. He'll make Kili a fine husband, should it come to that.”  
  
Fili's mouth purses. “I would give anything to hear you say that of person  _I_  wish to marry.”  
  
Thorin sighs, yet again. “Bilbo Baggins is honorable and brave, and even something of a warrior, yes, I'll freely admit it. But able to be a prince-consort?” He shakes his head. “He knows virtually nothing of our ways—“  
  
“I would teach him.”  
  
“And the people . . . how would they react to seeing an outsider raised above them, so?” Thorin's eyebrows lift in question.  
  
“Once they find out this outsider saved the life of the king of Erebor, I think they'll make him welcome. Just as Thranduil was made welcome, once upon a time.”  
  
“Yes, and look at what came of that,” Thorin says ruefully. Fili puts a hand on his uncle's shoulder in sudden understanding and commiseration.  
  
“Bilbo is  _not_  Thranduil. Nor is he some outsider-usurper. You must trust me to recognize the difference, and our people, too.” Fili pauses, then dares to say: “And you must trust yourself to recognize it, as well.”   
  
Thorin's mouth drops open in surprise.  
  
This time, when Fili stands up to go, Thorin lets him.  
  


*

  
  
The first village they come to, a day later, Sperry, boasts not only an inn, but an inn with a bathingroom.  
  
Not that Fili hadn't enjoyed bathing without soap in cold river water, but there's always something to be said for a copper tub filled with near-boiling water and a big chunk of real soap.  
  
Alas, it's one of only three such tubs in the inn, so Fili can't linger long—only long enough to get skin and hair scrubbed and shiny, respectively, then make way for the next dwarf, who just happens to be Kili.  
  
“You'd better have left me some hot water,” Kili says, glowering. Fili smirks, belting his borrowed robe and shaking his head so water flies off his hair and pelts Kili, who glares.  
  
“Not much.”  
  
And with that he's exiting the bathing room with his dirty clothes. He making his way down the long hall, to the room he shares with Kili, Thorin, and Balin, when he bumps into someone and drops his clothes.  
  
“Oh! Sorry! That was my fault—wasn't paying attention, I—oh . . . hello,” Bilbo says, his eyes wide. Then he's bending over to pick up Fili's clothes. He, too, is dressed in nothing but a robe, which hangs and bags on him like an adult's clothes on a child. What little of his chest Fili can see is smooth and hairless.  
  
“Hello, Bilbo.” Fili absently takes each item of clothing Bilbo hands him. Not once does Bilbo meet his gaze. Then, after the last article of clothing has been handed over, he starts to step past Fili, blushing. But Fili blocks the way once. Then again, when Bilbo tries to go around him the other way. Finally, Bilbo looks up at him, his eyes skittering to and from Fili's.  
  
“Let me by, please,” he says quietly. Fili sighs, kicking himself. What had he been  _thinking_? Had he been thinking at all?  
  
It would appear not.  
  
“Of course,” he replies, moving to one side. Bilbo seems disappointed for a moment. Then he's scurrying by, careful not to touch Fili, who lets out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding.  
  


*

  
  
Fili gets  _drunk_  that evening.  
  
Not just a little, but a  _lot_. So drunk that, the next morning, he not only doesn't remember most of the previous night, but he doesn't remember how he got to his bed. But he has rather many more problems to deal with when he wakes up. Such as the all-drum marching band in his head. Or the fact that his tongue seems to be twice its normal size. Or the fact that he feels as if he's going to be vioently ill at any moment.  
  
Kili is kind enough to help him to the loo, where he  _is_  quite ill. When he gets back to the room, feeling somewhat beter, but still achy about the head and even more vile about the mouth, Thorin and Balin are dressed and ready to go, and what's more, they're laughing at him. Not out loud, but it's easily visible in the twinkle of their eyes and the twitching of their lips.  
  
“Think this is funny, do you?” Fili croaks hoarsely, squinting his bloodshot eyes in the morning light. His skull feels as if its about to cave in.  
  
Balin clears his throat and excuses himself, muttering something about breakfast. On his way out, he grabs a protesting Kili's arm and drags him along.  
  
“You look terrible,” Thorin says when the door shuts behind them. “Are you certain you're up to walking, today?”  
  
“I am, if you are,” Fili grunts, shuffling to his bed, where his clothes have been laid out. They're still a little damp, but an hour or so under the summer sun and they'll be dry.  
  
“Really, you look like death warmed over. You haven't even braided your hair.”  
  
Tossing his unusually loose hair out of his face, Fili discards his robe and grabs his shirt. Pulling it on sends a fresh wave of nausea through him, but he's literally emptied himself of everything he's ever eaten, so he fears nothing else coming out of him. From either end.  
  
Getting his trews on is a bit more problematic, as he nearly falls over in the attempt. In the end, Thorin has to help him with that.  
  
“Thank you,” Fili grumbles around his tongue.  
  
“Don't mention it.” Thorin sits on Fili's bed and watches him slowly, painstakingly pull on his tunic and weapons. Then Fili sits next to him, heavily.  
  
“The only thing I could recommend would be the hair of the dog and/or a very spare breakfast,” Thorin finally says.  
  
Fili's stomach roils and he hangs his head, pinching his nose shut to stave off nausea. “No more ale. No breakfast.”  
  
Thorin pats his back almost gently. “You know, you've always reminded me of me, when I was younger,” he muses, and Fili looks up.  
  
“Except I'm better looking,” he adds, letting go of his nose. Thorin laughs.  
  
“Not at the moment.” He laughs again. “At any rate, you, like me, are a maudlin, morose, brooding drunk—prone to singing threnodies and dirges. Perhaps it's me you get it from. But apparently you know far more songs about lost love and lost gold than I do, something I thought was impossible.”  
  
Fili blinks. “Uncle, what  _are_  you talking about?”  
  
Thorin seems surprised. “You don't know?”  
  
“Should I. . . ?”  
  
“Considering the scene you made, last night—“  
  
Fili freezes, his hand falling away from his face. “Scene? I made a  _scene_?”  
  
“Aye.” Thorin snorts, standing up and pacing to the window. “You've quite the lungs on you, lad. And the poor halfling . . . I thought he was going to die of embarrassment . . . the other patrons seemed amused, however.”  
  
As a fresh wave of cold panic races over over Fili, Thorin paces back over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder, seeming completely oblivious to Fili's frozen panic.  
  
“But I must say . . . I see now I was wrong to doubt your feelings for him. And I release you from the oath I made you swear in the mountains—it was dishonorable of me to make you swear it, in the first place,” he says quietly, then adds: “If you wish to court and marry our esteemed burglar . . . you have my full blessing. Oh, and I've also spoken to Mister Baggins about the matter—“  
  
“You've  _what_?” Fili moans as a wave of pain arcs across his skull. But he stands up anyway, only staggering a little. “Where's Bilbo, now?”   
  
“Probably eating breakfast with the others. Which we probably want to be doing, too, since we've got a long march ahead of us.” Thorin says briskly, patting Fili on the back again and walking to the door.  
  
Fili follows, casting his mind back as much as he can, but for the life of him, he can't remember what happened last night after sitting at the bar and ordering his first ale.  
  
And he can only  _imagine_  what Thorin had said to Bilbo.  
  


*

  
  
When they reach the common room, Thorin makes his way, without hesitation, to the cluster of tables where everyone is gathered, laughing and eating, completely absorbed in the acivity.  
  
Except for Bilbo. Bilbo is watching Fili with grim, wary eyes, his face suddenly scarlet.  
  
Without a word, and before anyone else notices him, Fili turns and walks back out of the common room.  
  
Perhaps it feels like the most cowardly thing he's ever done because it  _is_  the most cowardly thing he's ever done.  
  


*

  
  
In the empty bathing room, he gargles the taste of vomit out of his mouth, to limited success.  
  
Then he splashes water on his face and looks in the large mirror above the basin. He's got dark circles around his eyes, he's pale, and his hair is a  _mess_.  
  
Leaning on the basin and sighing, Fili wonders if it's worth it to even ask Thorin—or Balin, perhaps Balin would be better—what-all he'd got up to the previous night. Though he's gleaned enough to know that he'd gotten absolutely snockered, sung a bunch of sad love songs—apparently to Bilbo, who'd been embarrassed—then at some point, passed out.  
  
 _Perhaps I'm better off not knowing any of the finer details,_  Fili thinks miserably.  _I've already shamed myself and Bilbo enough for one lifetime—_  
  
There's a knock on the door and Fili starts, then glares at his reflection.  
  
“I'll just be a moment longer!” he calls, wiping his wet face on his arm and finger-combing his hair out of his face. “Just a moment!”  
  
Straightening himself out as best he can, Fili finally unlatches and opens the door, and gets the surprise of his life.  
  
“So, last night, I was serenaded by a very drunk dwarf, who then went down on one knee, declared his undying love, and proposed marriage, then passed out before he could finish said proposal,” Bilbo says, coming into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it. His eyes are intent and even a little angry. “All this in front of, oh, I don't know, thirty people—not including the fellowship.”  
  
Fili blushes so hard it makes his throbbing head throb worse. “I—“  
  
“Then,” Bilbo goes on, holding up his hand to forestall any further commentary from Fili. “At the most ungodly hour of the morning, said drunken dwarf's uncle rouses me from what was admittedly a very thin sleep to tell me that I had his blessing to marry his nephew, but that if I _hurt_  his nephew in any way, he'd beat me to death with a  _shovel_.”  
  
Fili covers his face with his hands. “Oh, bugger me,” he breathes, absolutely mortified.  
  
“And to top it off, while I'm trying to enjoy my breakfast, Balin starts talking to me about drawing up a marriage contract,” Bilbo finishes. His voice, heretofore, has been relatively clam, but now it shoots up a little. “Oh, and then, all the other members of our august company started weighing in and haggling over—and I quote—the 'bride price'!”  
  
“Oh, oh,” Fili groans, running his hands through his tangled hair. They get stuck almost immediately. “Bilbo, I'm so,  _so_  sorr—“  
  
“What  _I'd_  like to know is,” Bilbo says as if Fili hadn't even spoken, his eyes narrowed. He takes a step toward Fili, who takes a step back. “What in the bloody hell do they mean by referring to  _me_ as a  _bride_?”  
  
Fili, hands still mired in his hair, blinks. “Er . . .  _what_?”  
  
Bilbo crosses his arms and huffs. “Well, assuming you ever propose to me properly and further assuming I manage not to get done in by a shovel, I'll prefer to be called the 'other groom,' not the 'bride.'”  
  
“ _What_?” Fili finally frees his fingers and then doesn't know what to do with his hands. So he crosses his arms, too. Then uncrosses them, because he feels it makes him look angry, when what he really is is confused. “You're . . . angry about being referred to as the 'bride' in our marriage negotiations?”  
  
Bilbo tilts his chin up. “Yes, if you must know. I'm not the most masculine of the two of us, but neither am I a woman.”  
  
“No . . . no, you're not. So . . . I proposed to you, last night? In front of everyone?” Fili wants to get at least that much clear. Bilbo turns red, but steps closer, arms still crossed, but defensively, not angrily.  
  
“Yes, you did.”  
  
“And, er . . . what did I say?” Fili asks, drifting closer himself, till he gets hints of that strawberry-freshness. His eyes flutter shut for a few moments and he smiles a little. Bilbo smiles back.  
  
“You said—and again, I'm quoting— _I'd give up a thousand Erebors for just one taste of your lovely lips. And I'd give up ten thousand Erebors if you'd do me the honor of accepting my hand in—_  and there endeth the proposal. You passed out and Kili and Thorin carried you off to bed.” Bilbo shrugs, laughing a little, all traces of anger gone, now.  
  
“ _Marriage_ ,” Fili says simply, finishing what he'd started the night before. Bilbo looks puzzled for a moment, before understanding dawns on his fair features, and he smiles. It's like the sun coming out, only without adding to Fili's hangover.  
  
“You're sure?” Bilbo asks in a murmur. “I'm not a warrior—not really. Not a dwarf, not royalty—not even a Thain. I'm just . . . Bilbo Baggins. Are you sure that's what you want?”  
  
Fili heaves out a laugh that's more relief than merriment. The merriment will have to come later. “Bilbo, that's all I've  _ever_  wanted. Even before I knew that was  _what_  I wanted.” He reaches out tentatively and brushes the backs of his fingers across Bilbo's soft, smooth cheek. “I love you. And I  _would_  give up Erebor for you.”  
  
“But you don't have to, now,” Bilbo says bemusedly. Fili wraps his arms around Bilbo's waist and pulls him closer. “You don't have to give up the place you were born to, or your kith and kin. Your  _people_.”  
  
“No, I don't.”  
  
“And Thorin approves of me . . . I  _think_. . . .” Bilbo's brow furrows, and Fili kisses the furrow away.  
  
“He does. He told me so, himself,” Fili says quickly, holding Bilbo's gaze. “There's nothing standing between us and our future together.  _Nothing_.”  
  
Bilbo takes a breath. “In that case . . . I accept your proposal,” he says with a small, shy smile.  
  
Fili grins so wide, his already aching skull feels about ready to crack open. Then he's kissing Bilbo, tasting that strawberry sweetness, letting it drown out the tastes of loneliness and failure. Bilbo moans softly into his mouth, his arms coming up to wrap around Fili's neck.  
  
Fili pushes Bilbo back against the door, taking the opportunity to put the latch down. He presses his body flush against Bilbo's and kisses his way down Bilb's throat, to his collar. Leaning back to look Bilbo in the eyes—Bilbo's are half-lidded and heated—Fili smiles and unbuttons the first button of Bilbo's shirt ever so carefuly.  
  
“Here?” Bilbo asks incredulously.  
  
Fili nods. “Here.”  
  
“Now?”  
  
“Now.”  
  
“. . . alright. . . .”  
  
Fili's grin turns wicked, and the rest of Bilbo's buttons are undone with a lot less care.  
  
Shirt and waistcoat get pushed off and fall unheeded to the floor. Fili runs one finger down the center of Bilbo's chest, stopping only when he comes to the waist of Bilbo's breeches. In seconds, they're a puddle on the floor at Bilbo's feet, and he steps out of them, obviously fighting the urge to cover himself.  
  
“So pale and perfect,” Fili murmurs, entranced, and Bilbo blushes  _all_  over. Fili runs his hands gently over Bilbo's arms and chest, down his thighs and calves. Then, still kneeling, he examines the erection standing out from the nest of curls at Bilbo's groin. Runs his finger along it, from root to tip, and through the wetness gathered there, then brings his finger to his lips, licking away the bittersweet, musky taste.  
  
Bilbo's eyes widen and he shivers.  
  
“What about you?” he asks huskily. “I want to  _see you_.”  
  
Fili smiles and stands up. He removes his weapons, placing them near the basin. Then his tunic and shirt are shucked and tossed at one of the empty copper tubs. Before he can get to his breeches, though, Bilbo's stepped forward and put his hands on Fili's chest, running his fingers through his chest hair before leaning in to place a kiss just over Fili's heart. . . .  
  
Then he's kissing his way to Fili's left nipple, which he bites playfully, flicking his tongue at it. Fili's breath catches and he moans, his breeches hitting the floor just as Bilbo's hand seeks out and finds the hardness those breeches had done precious little to conceal.  
  
“Bilbo,” Fili breathes as Bilbo strokes him tentatively, but with more certainty as Fili's moans grow louder and more frequent. Till finally Fili pulls away, reluctantly, but firmly, catching Bilbo's hand.  
  
“But you didn't, er, you know,” Bilbo breathes. Fili pulls Bilbo's hand up to his mouth and kisses the palm.  
  
“I know. I want to wait till I'm inside you.”   
  
Bilbo's eyes open so wide, they look to be in danger of falling out of their sockets.  
  
Fili pulls Bilbo against him for a moment, gasping and hissing at the sweet shock of contact. Bilbo's the one to moan, this time, so helplessly and yearningly. Then Fili's turning away, toward the basin. More accurately, the small cupboard over it. He opens it, removing items and dropping them into the basin till he finds what he's looking for.  
  
“Aha!” He holds up a small clay bottle, stoppered with a cork, then brings it over to Bilbo. “Just what we need.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
That wicked grin again. “Bath oil.” He pops out the cork and takes a sniff. The oil smells of some flower or other, and he lets Bilbo take a sniff, too.  
  
“Pretty,” Bilbo says, blushing. Fili sinks to his knees again.  
  
“Spread your legs, love. As wide as you can,” he says and Bilbo obeys. He's rewarded by Fili running his tongue across the tip of his prick like it's a candy.  
  
He puts a steadying hand on Fili's shoulder and Fili does it again and again, till Bilbo's panting and a light sheen of sweat has sprung up all over him.  
  
Then he dips his first three fingers into the oil and reaches up between Bilbo's legs, brushing back past his bollocks, and up to the puckered opening between his cheeks.  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Bilbo groans as Fili's fingers make pass after pass at, but don't quite breach that first muscle . . . then when Fili presses in with one finger, Bilbo tenses up momentarily.  
  
“Relax . . . it'll only hurt if you're tense,” Fili promises, nuzzling Bilbo's thigh. “Relax.”  
  
“A-alright.” And Bilbo relaxes somewhat. More so than he had been, at any rate, taking Fili's finger as far as it would go, bearing up under the stretch and discomfort until Fili finds something else he's been looking for and Bilbo cries out, his so far wilting erection coming back to life. Fili smiles and takes Bilbo into his mouth sucking and licking at the once more hardened flesh and simultaneously stroking that spot that'd made Bilbo cry out.  
  
Bilbo barely seems to notice when Fili adds the second finger . . . though he hisses on the third.  
  
Fili increases his suction and the frequency with which he brushes that spot inside Bilbo, until Bilbo cries out a final time and goes utterly still, before flooding Fili's mouth with bittersweet heat.  
  
Fili swallows every drop and catches Bilbo when he sags forward.  
  
“It's alright, Bilbo. I'm here, I love you, it's alright,” he soothes, standing up and pulling Bilbo into his arms. Bilbo's damp face rests on his shoulder as he pants and tries to speak. It's several minutes before he can, and when he does, his voice is shaking like the rest of him.  
  
“Oh, Fili, that was— _Havens_ , that was—“ Bilbo moans again. “I've run out of words.”  
  
Fili laughs, his hand running up and down Bilbo's back before settling on the curve of his backside. “I like making you speechless.”  
  
Bilbo looks up at Fili, smiling besottedly. “The process was quite enjoyable for me, as well.”  
  
Fili leans down and kisses Bilbo. Kisses him till Bilbo's groaning and starting to get hard again against Fili's thigh.  
  
But instead of tending to himself, Bilbo reaches down to take Fili in hand.  
  
“I think I'm ready, now,” he says softly, his big blue eyes all pupil, now, as he looks up at Fili. “To have you i-inside me.”  
  
And really, that's all  _Fili_  needs to hear.  
  
With one last kiss, he leads Bilbo over to a man-sized chair, the seat of which is about waist high to Bilbo and Fili, and bids him to bend over it. Bilbo does so trustingly, though a blush does spring up all over his body again. Fili smiles, and simply gazes at him for a few moments.  
  
He is . . .  _lovely_  like this.  
  
Then Fili takes up the bottle with the oil and pours a generous amount in his hand. He slathers it over himself and comes to stand behind Bilbo, who shivers once more.  
  
“Will it . . . hurt much?” he asks, looking back over his shoulder at Fili, his eyes growing even wider at the sight of Fili, hard and obviously more than ready to be getting on with things.  
  
“Not much, as long as you relax. I promise, I'll go slowly.” Fili smiles, and when Bilbo returns it, Fili runs his hand up Bilbo's flank and leans down to kiss the center of his back.  
  
Then he's spreading Bilbo's legs and holding his cheeks apart. Carefully, he lines himself up, so the tip of his prick is poised at Bilbo's tight, twitching opening. Slowly, he pushes forward.  
  
Bilbo immediately tenses up . . . then almost as quickly relaxes, still hissing a little as Fili breaches the first ring of muscle. Fili swears as he's engulfed in tight, wet heat that clenches and pulses around him. It's a fight for the whole thing to not be over as soon as it started.  
  
But he pulls himself together, under some semblence of control, and resumes the slow, tortuous push in . . . till at last he's sheathed completely in Bilbo's body, panting and sweating from self-restraint and exertion.  
  
He reaches around to Bilbo's front, surprised when he finds that not only hasn't Bilbo wilted this time, he's grown quite hard. And those pants and little mewls are  _not_  pleas to  _stop_.  
  
Fili pulls out as carefully as he can, but Bilbo still gasps and moans, whining: “Don't. . . .”  
  
Grasping Bilbo's hips, Fili thrusts again, a bit faster than he means to, and when Bilbo cries out this time, there's a mix of pain and pleasure in that cry.  
  
On the next thrust, there's considerably less pain and considerably more pleasure in Bilbo's cry. And so it goes until Fili swivels his hips, and finds that spot again and Bilbo howls.  
  
After that, Bilbo's pushing back into every thrust, meeting it with grunts of his own, whether or not Fili hits the spot. Until, between one thrust and the next, Bilbo stiffens again, and pulses tangibly in Fili's hand. And every other muscle in his body seems to bear down on Fili's prick and he's lost, calling out Bilbo's name as he spends himself spectacularly, and goes spinning off into a place of soft white light. . . .  
  
A place from which he returns, realizing he's slumped on Bilbo's back and they're both half-falling off the dangerously creaking chair.  
  
And that loud knocking sound isn't, as he initially thinks, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest.  
  
“—time to  _go_ , you two lovebirds.”  
  
Bofur's voice. And far more amused than Fili likes.  
  
“You've put on quite a show with your grunting and groaning, but it's time we were leaving.” And this comes from Dwalin, along with more pounding on the door. Fili turns bright red and underneath him, so does Bilbo.  
  
“Er, just a moment!” Fili calls, putting one calming hand on Bilbo's back and carefully pulling out of him. Bilbo muffles a pained sound on his arm. “We're . . . er . . . bathing!”  
  
“Bathing, my arse!” This, again, from Dwalin. “Just hurry up so we can be on our way!”  
  
Then he stomps off, followed by Bofur's laughter.  
  
Fili stands up straight on legs that only wobble a little, and helps Bilbo to straighten up, on legs that wobble a  _lot_.  
  
But he turns to face Fili grinning. It's so infectious, Fili can't help but grin back.  
  
“That was  _brilliant_ ,” Bilbo says, laughing. “Don't know that I'll be much good for walking, now, but it was  _well_  worth it.”  
  
“I'm glad,” Fili steals a kiss that turns into two. Then three, then four, before they separate with another laugh. “One day, though, I promise you, we'll spend ourselves on silk sheets and cloth-of-gold, instead of a common bathingroom chair.”  
  
Bilbo grins again. “I don't need silk sheets or cloth-of-gold . . . I just need  _you_.”  
  
Fili brushes Bilbo's damp fringe out of his face and leans in to kiss him again, when another bang on the door sounds, startling them both.  
  
“Two more minutes, and I take an ax to this door!” Dwalin calls and this time Fili and Bilbo separate with a purpose.  
  
“I think he means it,” Bilbo says.  
  
“I think he does, too,” Fili agrees.  
  
And so, Fili and Bilbo quickly help each other clean up and get dressed—just in time, too, for when they open the bathingroom door, Dwalin has his ax raised—and rejoin the others. They hoot and holler and cheer when Fili and Bilbo appear, holding hands and blushing. Even Thorin's smiling, just a little.  
  
So, where it  _really_  starts, Fili supposes, is when he and Bilbo walk—or in Bilbo's case, gingerly hobble—out of Sperry still holding hands, still getting clapped on the back and hurrah'ed, because this happy little idyll?  
  
Really  _is_  just the beginning. 


	2. The Second Time Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Fili discovers it’s always better the second time around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own, so don't sue.  
> Notes/Warnings: AU. Erebor was successfully retaken. Takes place after "The Beginning" by eight months. Spoilers for "The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey."

Scrolls and parchment scatter to the floor as Fili bears Bilbo down to his desk.  
  
Gasping, giggling, Bilbo says: “Someone’ll come along and see, Fili—Dori was just here not ten minutes ago!”  
  
Pushing up Bilbo’s shirt and waistcoat, baring a smooth, narrow back the color of fresh cream in the meager lamplight of the ‘prentice librarian’s small corner of an office, Fili grins and leans down to kiss that soft skin, catching hints of that strawberry-scent, along with the sccents of parchment and ink.  
  
“Bugger Dori . . . though I’d much rather be buggering you,” he kisses into the small of Bilbo’s back, and Bilbo shivers under him. At the same time his thumbs have hooked into Bilbo’s breeches and are pulling them down and down, till they’re nothing more than a puddle at Bilbo’s furry feet.  
  
“Oh,  _Fili_ ,” Bilbo breathes when Fili straightens up and pushes his hardened, cloth-covered—but not for long—prick against Bilbo’s arse. “I’m s-supposed to be sorting . . . and s-shelving—” another gasp when Fili’s left hand sneaks around to Bilbo’s front to grab the hardness that was made to be gripped and stroked by his hand. “We m-meant to have this section done by moonrise, at the latest!”  
  
“Mm . . . wait,  _moonrise_? You spend too many late nights in this dank dungeon,” Fili murmurs, his other hand undoing the buttons of his fly. His own trousers are also a puddle on the floor in seconds, and he reaches into his right trouser pocket for the small phial of oil he always carries with him because, well, one never knows. “You’re letting Dori work you into the ground straightening out a library that took literally aeons to assemble. It won’t be—oh,  _love_ —put right in a matter of weeks. Or even months.”  
  
“I know,” Bilbo sighs, then grunts breathlessly as Fili’s fingers push their way into him, neither fast nor slow, but implacable. Determined. Fili leans down to kiss Bilbo’s shoulder. “It’s just so easy to get caught up in his work-ethic! He’s here when I arrive and  _still_  here when I leave . . . I don’t think he even sleeps!”  
  
“Mm . . . and he certainly doesn’t do  _this_. . . .”  
  
Bilbo gasps as Fili’s fingers find that spot inside of him . . . that lovely little place that turns Bilbo-the-assistant-librarian into Bilbo-the-wanton-lover. Fili brushes and presses that spot mercilessly, till Bilbo’s beyond the words needed to beg for Fili’s prick instead of his fingers.  
  
But during the months since the retaking of Erebor, Fili’s become adept at translating those groans and gasps and lovely wee hitches and sighs into something approximating language.  
  
Hastily, but carefully, Fili removes his fingers and coats his hand in oil. “Oh, now, Fili,  _now_ ,” Bilbo pleads softly as Fili strokes himself with the slippery stuff. Then he’s pressing the tip of cock to Bilbo’s tight, puckered entrance, steeling himself for the first breathtaking push in.  
  
He swears vehemently, under his breath—Dori probably  _isn’t_  all that far away—when Bilbo’s slick, clutching hole closes hungrily around the tip of his cock . . . then all words are temporarily lost to him as he slides slowly into Bilbo’s warm, welcoming body.  
  
“Yes, love,  _yes_ ,” he hisses as he drives himself the last few centimeters home, and Bilbo lets out a soft, choked back cry.  
  
“Oh . . .  _oh. . . Fili_. . . .”  
  
Then Fili’s pulling out slowly, only to thrust back in hard and fast, his hands clutching at Bilbo’s slim hips. He nuzzles Bilbo’s nape, lost in the sweet, strawberry scent of his hair and skin, lost to the dance of their bodies pulling apart, only to come back together once more.  
  
After a timeless span of pleasure greater than Fili’s ever known with anyone else, he slips one hand around to Bilbo’s front and takes his hard cock in hand. Bilbo moans helplessly and pushes back against Fili desperately. More parchment and scrolls go rolling off his desk and to the floor.  
  
Fili’s hand on Bilbo is relentless and quick, his thumb occasionally glancing off the sensitive tip of Bilbo’s straining cock.  
  
“Fili—” Bilbo bites out, and a tad loudly. Looking around them at the stacks of tomes, scrolls, and parchments—no sign of Dori, but one can never tell—Fili knows that, regrettably, it’s time to let this delightful interlude end. They both have duties to be getting back to and the longer they’re at this, lovely though it is, the more likely it is they’ll be caught.  
  
“Come for me, my love,” Fili leans down to whisper in Bilbo’s pointed ear, kissing it gently. His hand speeds up as do his thrusts. “Come for me,  _now_.”  
  
And Bilbo does, with a loud gasp and a soft, high-pitched cry that hopefully doesn’t carry. His body goes stiff as warm wetness spills over Fili’s fist then when the tangible pulse of his cock stops, he goes completely limp with a breathless exhalation.  
  
Smiling, Fili grasps Bilbo’s hips and closes his eyes, his own thrusts losing rhythm and poetry until he himself is on the edge, even the very sounds of their bodies coming together driving him mad with the need for release.  
  
Bilbo chuckles a little raggedly, and one hand comes up to cover Fili’s and squeeze.  
  
“Now  _you_  come for  _me_ ,” he murmurs, bearing down tight around FIli’s prick and pushing back against him one final time. This time, Fili’s the one to make a choked sound and the entire world whites out in one explosion of pleasure so intense, it’s nearly pain. He doesn’t know if he makes a sound and even if he knew, he’d be beyond caring. He pumps out his release, hot and endless, into Bilbo’s body, arms sliding around Bilbo’s waist as he crushes the hobbit to him, his face buried in the soft fabric of Bilbo’s waistcoat, which also smells of strawberries.  
  


*

  
  
Afterwards, with many a farewell kiss and caress, Fili leaves Bilbo to his work— _better him than me . . . all these bloody scrolls and things,_  Fili thinks gratefully, licking his lips for the lingering sweetness of Bilbo’s kisses—and makes his way back to the throne room, where his own duties await.  
  


*

  
  
Hours later, it’s with a heavy, happy sigh that Fili watches the last of the day’s petitioners straggle out of the throne room, followed by the sharp-eyed royal guard.  
  
To his left, seated on the throne, and flanked on his other side by Balin, Thorin lets out a sigh of his own, more frustrated than anything. And Fili knows that it’s because, if he could, Thorin’d work ‘round the clock solving his people’s problems, large and small.  
  
Like Bilbo, Thorin, too, would see what’d taken aeons to achieve put right in a matter of weeks or months.  
  
Fili puts his hand on Thorin’s shoulder and smiles when his uncle looks up at him questioningly.  
  
“Erebor is put a little more to rights every day. Your efforts are not wasted, or unnoticed, Uncle. But you’re not a machine to be worked constantly, without rest.”  
  
Thorin smiles tiredly. “But a king  _must_ , in a sense, be a machine, Fili. A machine that produces answers and justice whenever his people need them: tireless and unbiased.”  
  
Fili groans. “Scarce making any time for the little things, such as eating or sleeping, I suppose.”  
  
A weary twinkle lights Thorin’s eye. “I’ve noticed  _you_  haven’t been forgoing any lunch-breaks, lately.”  
  
Blushing, Fili clears his throat and looks away. It’s no secret among—well, anyone in the court, he imagines—that the heir-apparent spends his lunch-times with a certain librarian, and that during those lunch-times, the two have yet to be seen at the kitchens or dining hall together.  
  
“And I can only guess at how much sleep you’ve been getting,” Thorin adds wryly, clearly noting Fili’s blush, which only intensifies.  
  
For all that Bilbo had been an innocent when Fili’d first had him, in the often busy months since, he’s turned into a nigh insatiable incubus when they lay down together, and Fili’s . . . never been more tired, more hungry, or more happy in his life. And once a seemly amount of time has passed between the last supplicant leaving and Thorin and Balin talking over the cases of the day—usually with Fili nodding, his attention already an hour hence—Fili will excuse himself, ostensibly to go to the kitchens and commandeer his and Bilbo’s suppers. Though, once Fili arrives at their rooms, only to be caught up in Bilbo’s waiting arms, one thing leads to another, and . . . dinner isn’t had till breakfast, more often than not.  
  
And even breakfast is only a  _maybe_ -affair, depending on how tired they both are from the previous night of loving and talking and loving some more. Usually, Bilbo can be counted on to give Fili a morning send-off to beggar any parade or party, and leaving little time for breakfast. . . .  
  
Fili sighs again, reaching up to absently brush the livid lovemark Bilbo’d left just below his ear this morning.  
  
“I see even now, your thoughts are . . . elsewhere.” This is said fondly, indulgently, and Thorin’s obviously biting back a chuckle when he says it. A chuckle that Balin doesn’t even bother to hide.  
  
“Ah, to be so young and so enamored,” the older dwarf murmurs with a soft, wistful sigh. Fili smiles gamely, rather glad that his ceremonial tunic and mail armor can cover one urgent multitude of a sin.   
  
“Indeed.” Thorin’s smile turns wry for a moment, and slightly rueful, before clearing. “There’s no need for you to hang about, rehashing the day’s events with the two of us, Fili. Not when there’s somewhere else you wish to be more.”  
  
Fili blinks. Then blinks again. “Does that mean that I’m—”  
  
“Excused? Yes.” Thorin’s eyebrow quirks questioningly. “Unless you  _wish_  to stay and discuss the cases of the da—”  
  
“Thank you, Uncle!” Fili calls from half-way across the throne room, having already broken into a trot that he knows is unseemly, but can’t seem to care much about. In his mind, he’s already at the kitchens, begging a quick meal for two off of Cook, as per usual. One that likely won’t get eaten till just after dawn. Grinning, he remembers himself, and pauses in his sprint, to turn and bow to Thorin. “I’ll see you both on the morrow, bright and early!”  
  
Then he’s pelting out of the throne room, Thorin’s and Balin’s laughter following after him.  
  


*

  
  
Fili flops back down to their bed, panting, and Bilbo collapses on top of him in much the same state.  
  
Wrapping his arms around his husband, Fili holds him close, still thrusting gently, sporadically, till he’s soft enough to slide out of Bilbo, who sighs and kisses him tenderly. As one, they shift into their usual sleeping positions—Fili sprawled on the bed, and Bilbo sprawled half on top of him, face tucked into the crook of Fili’s neck—the silence between them occasionally interrupted by the  _pop!_  s coming from the fireplace.  
  
“That was  _glorious_ , my prince,” Bilbo murmurs against the damp skin of Fili’s neck, kissing and nipping it lightly. Fili laughs.  
  
“So, I didn’t bore you too much, did I? You weren’t nodding off, there, toward the end?”  
  
“You know I wasn’t.” Bilbo swats Fili’s chest. “Not even after the day I’ve had.”  
  
“Mm . . . I could say the same.” Fili wriggles some, till he can wrap his arm around Bilbo’s waist. “Court and Petitions is far worse than it ever was back in the Blue Mountains. All these people streaming in every day with new problems and looking to be resettled . . . it’s a nightmare, some days!”  
  
“I can’t imagine.” Bilbo sighs again. “Though I wish some of those people straggling back in were librarians. Dori and I could use the help, to be honest. All those tumbled shelves and whatnot—tomes and parchment and scrolls  _everywhere_  . . . everything so mixed up and crazy. . . .”  
  
“Sounds even worse than Court.” Fili shudders. He has nothing against libraries . . . he’s just glad he doesn’t have to spend any time in them any longer. That part of his education is, thankfully over.  
  
He hopes.  
  
“I’m sure it’s not. After all, there’s no deadline, Dori’s work-ethic aside, to what I’m doing, but you, my love—” Bilbo looks up and tilts Fili’s face down toward his own for a  _long_  kiss. One that sees Fili starting to get hard once more before it’s even half-way over. “ _You_  may very well be King Under the Mountain, someday.”  
  
“Hopefully not any time soon,” Fili mutters, pulling Bilbo closer and tighter, kissing his way to Bilbo’s throat. “Hopefully, and quite likely, Thorin will outlive us all.”  
  
Bilbo laughs. “Well, he’s certainly too stubborn let death take him without a hell of a fight, I’d say. And my money would be on Thorin for the win.” Clever fingers walk their way down Fili’s throat and collarbone, to his nipple where they pinch and play.  
  
“Durin willing, I’ll never see the throne,” Fili breathes, pulling Bilbo on top of him. “ _Durin willing_ , Thorin will find some pretty maiden to sire a child or several on, and have his heir, and a few spares. And the only title I’ll have, henceforth, will be ‘uncle.’”  
  
Bilbo straddles Fili’s hips, and when Fili opens his eyes, all he can see are Bilbo’s dark ones, sparkling and lovely, but worried.  
  
“And what about you, Fili, son of Dis? Will you . . . find some pretty maid on whom to sire a child or several?” he asks softly, his hands coming up cup Fili’s face. “I know that, as a prince of Erebor, one of your duties—”  
  
“It’ll never come to that, love,” Fili reassures him squeezing him tight. Then his brow furrows. “Unless I  _do_ , somehow, wind up on the throne, in which case. . . .” he shakes his head. “Then it’ll never come to that. Because Thorin will outlive us all, and so will his children.”  
  
Bilbo’s eyes close for a moment, and when he opens them, the sparkle in them threatens to spill over.  
  
“It’s selfish of me, I suppose. To want you all for myself,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss Fili’s eyelids and the tip of his nose. “But even if you have to lay with someone else—or even put me aside and  _marry_  someone else—”  
  
“That will  _never_  happen, love.”  
  
“But if it does. If it does, Fili . . . I want you to know that I’ll  _always_  be yours.” Bilbo smiles, and that sparkle  _does_  finally spill over, to land in a gentle rain on Fili’s face. “I’ll wait for you—forever, if I have to. I’ll even be your . . . bit of fluff on the side, if it comes to that,” he laughs a little, but it’s a rueful laugh, one that hurts Fili’s heart. “But I’ll always be  _yours_.”  
  
With a low growl, Fili rolls them over, and pins Bilbo to the bed with his weight and his hands. The wrists he holds feel fragile in his hands, the body underneath his slight and precious. “You _are_  mine. For-ever. You, and no other.”  
  
Bilbo smiles, and opens his mouth to speak, but Fili kisses the words from his lips. After a time, Bilbo frees his hands from Fili’s gentled grip and wraps his arms around Fili’s neck.  
  
“If you love me,” he breathes on Fili’s lips, each brush of his own kiss-swollen ones causing a pleasant shiver. He arches up into Fili’s body with a soft, sensual moan. “Then love me.”  
  
Fili doesn’t have to be told twice.  
  


*

  
  
The next morning, shortly after dawn, Fili is at the kitchens—for once, dinner  _had_  been eaten last night . . . quickly, and between many kisses and much fondling—to acquire breakfast for himself and his husband, when Bofur shows up at the back of the relatively short line.  
  
When he spots Fili, who is near the front, he excuses himself all the way down the line, till he’s reached Fili, who rolls his eyes, but makes room for the other Dwarf—at the risk of many a grumble from the line behind him.  
  
“My prince,” Bofur greets him cheerfully.  
  
“Bofur.” Fili looks over the other Dwarf carefully. He appears to be doing well, hale and hearty—still wearing that ridiculous hat, despite the fact that he now has Kili to braid his hair properly for him—and he’s  _always_  smiling these days, whenever Fili sees him. And he’s almost never _without_  Kili.  
  
It’s disgusting, really, how . . . in each other’s back pockets the pair are, always whispering to each other, and. . . .  
  
Fili envies them the time they get to spend together.  
  
“So,” he says with a sigh. “How’s my brother? I feel as if I haven’t spoken to him in a month.”  
  
Bofur grins and winks. “He’s doing well . . . recovering, at the moment, and I didn’t have the heart to wake him.”  
  
 _Urgh_ , Fili thinks, repressing a shudder. “Well, that’s . . . more information than I requested. But thank you for sharing.”  
  
Bofur laughs. “Actually, he’s been driving us both so insane with planning the wedding that most nights he plans himself into unconsciousness.” Now, Bofur’s the one to sigh. “You’re lucky yours doesn’t take on so. Bilbo’s a level-headed young Hobbit—none of this crazy wedding-nonsense for him. Just a simple recitation of vows and signing of a contract and it was done.” He nods approvingly.  
  
But Fili frowns. Simple, indeed. Their wedding ceremony had definitely been that. Performed by none other than Thorin, himself, just before they entered Erebor to take on Smaug. It’d been Fili’s idea, of course, Bilbo not being one to push for anything, even when it was what he wanted. But  _Fili_  hadn’t wanted to go into battle without making what they felt official before the eyes of their fellowship, and the eyes of Durin. Balin, bless him, had been quietly working on a contract since before Sperry, it turned out, and after exchanging necessarily brief and quiet vows, and signing the contract in their own blood (poor Bilbo had looked as if he would faint, but hadn’t), Thorin had declared them wed, and blessed their union.  
  
Their first kiss as a wedded couple had come just minutes before taking on Smaug.  
  
Their first time making love as a wedded couple had occurred just  _after_  taking on Smaug. Ignobly enough, in the entryway of a room that rock-fall had blocked. There, against that arching, ruined lintel and tumbled stone debris, still running on the same determination and heady rush that’d allowed them to face and slay a dragon, Fili took his husband for the first time since their interlude in Sperry.  
  
Smiling a little, Fili comes out of his reverie, realizing that he’s been gazing off into space for some time. Bofur’s staring at him as if he’s gone mad.  
  
Clearing his throat, Fili says: “Yes. Bilbo  _is_  practical . . . but. . . .” he frowns, thinking about the previous night, and that worried sparkle in Bilbo’s eyes . . . the way it’d spilled heedlessly down Bilbo’s rosy cheeks. The painful uncertainty that must have been building in Bilbo for some time, considering how  _insistent_  it’d been.  
  
 _I’ll always be yours,_  he’d said, and not for the first time. But he’d never once asked Fili to make the same promise, and honestly, Fili’d never thought to. He’d thought it’d gone without saying, but perhaps . . . perhaps it hadn’t. “Maybe . . . maybe I should’ve waited to wed him,” Fili muses.  
  
“Eh?” Bofur’s eyeing the Dwarf ahead of them with vague asperity.  
  
“I mean . . . Kili wants this grand, wonderful wedding—no doubt he plans to invite everyone we’ve ever met, and then some—”  
  
“He’s even inviting Lord Elrond,” Bofur says absently, scratching his hat in amazement, but still glaring at the Dwarf in front of them, who’s apparently taking far too long choosing from the tureens for Bofur’s taste.  
  
Fili sighs. “Perhaps . . . perhaps Bilbo would’ve liked to have a chance to invite people to a wedding, where we declared our love in front of everyone, rather than just murmur whatever vows we could think of in front of a rock wall.”  _To say nothing of our first night together as a married couple._  
  
Bofur’s eyes widen when he looks over at Fili. “Oh, no. Just be glad you got it over with, and that Kili can’t go putting ideas into your lad’s head about a big, fancy to-do. I promise, neither he, nor _you_  would’ve slept—or done  _anything else_ —ever again, if you had. Oh, look—it’s my turn,” he adds with relief. Then he’s stepping forward smartly, grinning at the Dwarf who’d been ahead of Fili, who’s now leaving with a tray of piping hot food.  
  
Fili rolls his eyes once more, outwardly annoyed. Inwardly, however, he has quite a lot to ponder.  
  


*

  
  
When Fili returns to their rooms, Bilbo’s still asleep, lying on his stomach, one hand curled under his face, the other resting on Fili’s empty spot in bed.  
  
Smiling, Fili leaves breakfast on Bilbo’s night table—after snagging a sausage for himself, and a flapjack to wrap it in—kisses Bilbo’s shoulder, and quietly makes his way back out. Bilbo doesn’t so much as stir.  
  


*

  
  
Dis’ rooms aren’t far from Fili’s and, as always, it seems—at least when Fili needs her—she’s awake and fresh, as if she’d never needed sleep and never would.  
  
“Fili, lad,” she murmurs, kissing his cheeks. Also as always, she smells of strongly of flowers and faintly of mint. “How are you?”  
  
“I’m fine, Mum. Splendid, in fact,” he replies, hugging her tight. She like Bilbo, barely comes up to his chin. But also like Bilbo, she gives the most amazing embraces. In a different way and for different reasons, of course, but still amazing. “How’re you?”  
  
“Also splendid, my boy.” Dis leans back to look Fili over, and tsks. “You and your brother: not getting enough sleep and skinny enough to look through.” Brushing wrinkles out of the sleeve of his tunic, she sighs. “How I ever raised two such absent-minded Dwarves. . . .”  
  
“Mum, I eat plenty . . . when I remember to,” he adds when she gives him a doubtful look.  
  
“Hmm. Well. Dwarf cannot live on love alone. You’d both do well to remember that. And make certain Bilbo and Bofur remember, as well. Especially Bilbo, the poor dear. He’s skin and bones, that one,” she accuses, as if that’s Fili’s fault. Which he supposes it is, when one gets down to it.  
  
Thinking that perhaps Bilbo  _is_  looking a little bit peaky of late, Fili nods. “Yes, well that’s—actually not why I’ve come here, Mum. See, I’ve been thinking . . . Bilbo and I should’ve waited to get married,” he blurts out. Then adds: “That is, to have a wedding like Kili and Bofur are: with everyone and his donkey there. A big, fancy to-do. I think that maybe . . . perhaps it would have been better to join our lives together in front of more than just the fellowship. To have a real party and occasion to mark the specialness of what we did.”  
  
“Well,” Dis says, putting her hands on Fili’s shoulders and smiling as she adjusts his mail armor. “It certainly took you long enough to figure out. Come,” she says, pulling him into her rooms and closing the door. She drags him over to her fireplace and sits him in the chair that was once his father’s, then sits across from him. “Tell me what finally prompted this, and we’ll see if we can’t figure out how to resolve it.”  
  
Letting out a relieved breath—his mother  _always_  knows what to do—Fili nods and begins to speak.  
  


*

  
  
Fili hasn’t shown up.  
  
It’s  _well_  past his usual time to show up and disrupt Bilbo’s work by bending him over his own desk or pinning him to a wall, and Fili . . . hasn’t shown up.  
  
Normally this wouldn’t bother Bilbo—and shouldn’t, since Court and Petitions can run long, and often right through what would normally be a break for lunch (and Thorin, like Dori, tends to not want to pause for anything when there’s work still to be done). But for some reason, lately, he’s been rather uneasy about, well, many things, but most especially, his place in Fili’s life.  
  
Oh, certainly he’s valued as the assistant librarian, and liked by practically every Dwarf he’s met so far—he’s been hailed as Dwarf-friend since it got out somehow (probably Bofur, telling tales) that he’d saved Thorin’s life.  
  
But none of that helps ease the precarious feeling he has whenever he thinks of his marriage.  
  
Unrolling a particularly ancient-looking scroll carefully, Bilbo sighs. Fili has become, simply put, his very reason for being. And he’s reasonably certain that Fili adores him back. And yet. . . .  
  
And yet.  
  
He can’t help but feel that his place in Fili’s life is tenuous. Uncertain. That one ill wind could come along and knock him out of that place—out of Fili’s life and out of his heart. Not because Fili is fickle, but because . . . well, who is  _Bilbo Baggins_  that he could possibly hold the interest of a prince of Erebor?  
  
Who, indeed?  
  
It’s silly, he knows, this doubt. The only thing sillier, perhaps, is hoping that that ill wind won’t come along, and sweep the fog from Fili’s eyes and reveal that the Hobbit he loves is simply that: a Hobbit. And a right boring one, at that. One who finds satisfaction in tomes well-shelved, parchments well-stored, and scrolls well-sorted.  
  
A Hobbit of no extraordinary talents or beauty. Of no extant cleverness or wisdom.   
  
A Hobbit who cannot even bear him children, should the need arise.  
  
Bilbo blinks away tears before they can fall on the parchment—not the first time he has done so, lately—and sniffs. There’s so much he cannot give Fili that it staggers him. It quite overwhelms the few things he knows he  _can_  give Fili, such as his eternal love and loyalty.  
  
And as fine as those things are . . . what if they are simply, someday, not enough for Fili?  
  
There’s a saying that  _love conquers all_ , but those have been famous last words on plenty of tombstones and at the bottom of many bottles of spirits, Bilbo is certain.  
  
And time, if nothing else, has a way of proving many old maxims to be wrong. Especially where love is concerned. And even if their love lasted, who is to say that Fili’s duty to his people wouldn’t eventually part them, should Thorin’s reign come to a sudden end?  
  
They are, Bilbo’s been slowly realizing for several months, almost certainly doomed to be parted. Contracts and love aside . . . if necessary, Fili  _would_  put him aside for the sake of his people. Or worse . . . eventually Fili’s love could run dry. But even so, what if he still stood by Bilbo out of his unshakeable sense of duty and loyalty?  
  
Putting down the parchment, Bilbo stands up and skirts his desk, moving carefully among the shelves in spite of the tears in his eyes. Near the entrance to the Library, he almost collides with Dori, who asks him something, but Bilbo merely shoulders past the Dwarf, mumbling some excuse, he doesn’t even know what.  
  
Once in the hallway, he makes a run for it before he breaks down completely.  
  


*

  
  
Stalking out of the throne room, Fili’s got one hand on his ax-handle, and the other closed tight around something small and precious. He’s been clutching it since leaving his mother’s rooms early that morning, and all through an endless C&P session that had run through the time he normally takes his lunch-times.  
  
He’s barely had half an ear on the goings on of Court. All he’s been able to think about is his husband. The way he looks in the yellow lamplight, sitting at his desk, head bowed over some tome or other. The gentle, reverent way he turns pages or lifts parchment—the only other thing that receives such treatment from Bilbo, is  _Fili_ , when they’re alone—the small, contented smile on his lovely face as he works. And the way that smile widens when he looks up and sees Fili there, watching him.  
  
 _“One of these days, I’ll put a bell around your neck, Master Fili,” he usually says, and Fili grins.  
  
“You’ll have to catch me, first.”  
  
And those normally guileless eyes turn coy. “I don’t believe that’ll be a problem,” Bilbo says, crooking his finger in a _come hither _-gesture that never fails to make Fili as mindless as a bull in heat._  
  
Standing for hours on end in Court, with a hard-on, is something Fili is used to from much experience. It’s not fun. Not even remotely. So as soon as Thorin announced a break—closer to dinner than to lunch, but it’s something—he meant to rescue Bilbo from his duties, at least for a candlemark.  
  
Or longer.  
  
 _After all,_  Fili thinks as he finally,  _finally_  prowls toward the Library, hand closed around the most important thing he’s ever been poised to give the most important person in his life.  _It’s not every day a Dwarf gets engaged to the same person for the second time._  
  
And if he should happen not to make it back to the rest of Court, nor Bilbo back to the Library, then Thorin and Dori will simply have to understand and make do.  
  


*

  
  
Only . . . Bilbo’s not at his desk.  
  
Not at his desk, and—when Fili finds Dori in between one shelf and another, and asks after his husband—not in the Library, full-stop.  
  
“Mister Baggins ran out of here as if he was being chased—nearly knocked me down in his haste,” Dori says, sounding more worried than offended. “You don’t suppose something was wrong, do you? He seemed rather upset.”  
  
Fili opens his mouth to say:  _No, of course not! Why would he be upset?_  But then shuts it, because he doesn’t know how true that former statement would be, and fears he knows the answer to the latter.  
  
“I don’t suppose he said where he was going, did he?” Fili asks, concerned and frowning. Dori shakes his head.  
  
“But I imagine he’s gone looking for you, since you didn’t, er, stop by for your usual afternoon _assignation_.” Dori clears his throat discreetly, and Fili turns crimson.  
  
“You, ah, know about those?”  
  
Dori draws himself up almost haughtily. “Certainly. I know about everything that goes on in my Library. Besides which, you’re both rather . . . vocal,” he adds, almost smiling.  
  
And Fili would be absolutely mortified . . . if he didn’t have more important things on his mind.  
  
Marching out of the Library without so much as a  _farewell_ , he makes for the only place in Erebor Bilbo goes when he’s genuinely upset.  
  


*

  
  
The room is gloomy and dim and out of the way . . . off of the main corridors—lit only barely by the light coming in from the hallway.  
  
Most of the rock has long since been removed from what was once a small meeting chamber for the deciding of sensitive disputes, but it has yet to see use since Erebor’s reclaiming. No one ever goes there—no one except one Hobbit, when he needs to be alone, and one Dwarf, when he’s worried about that Hobbit.  
  
Now, Fili pauses in the entryway, running his hand along the arch of it, smiling as he remembers pushing Bilbo against it—the sweet, tight welcome of his body and his cries for more as Fili took him and took him repeatedly. Everything had smelled of charred meat, old metals, and stale air, but underneath it all, was that strawberry sweetness that’s meant  _Bilbo_  for as long as Fili had known either scent or Hobbit. . . .  
  
Now, the room smells only of stale air . . . and, faintly, of strawberries.  
  
Smiling, Fili enters the dim room quietly, making for the farthest corner from the door where, huddled against a sizeable pile of tumbled stone that used to be a decorative column, his husband huddles, apparently fast asleep.  
  
Fili kneels in front of the sleeping Hobbit and watches him for long minutes before softly whispering his name.  
  
Bilbo nonetheless starts awake, scrambling back against the rock for a few moments before Fili can calm him—pulls him into his arms, murmuring: “It’s alright, love, it’s just me. . . .”  
  
“Fili?” Bilbo blinks up at him, squinting. Fili knows that unlike Dwarf-eyes, Hobbit-eyes are  _not_ adapted to see in dark places. So he scoops Bilbo up and stands, carrying him closer to the entrance, where the light is, if not bright, then certainly bright enough for even a Hobbit to see by.  
  
Bilbo blinks in the meager light, squinting his eyes again, till they adjust. Then he gazes at Fili and tries on a smile that looks about as real as fool’s gold to a Dwarf past his first beard.  
  
“You’ve been weeping,” Fili says gently, noting the red, swollen eyes. Bilbo looks away quickly, but doesn’t deny it. “Why, my love? Tell me.”  
  
Bilbo risks a look at him. “It’s nothing. . . .”  
  
“It’s never  _nothing_  if it sends you  _here_ , Bilbo Baggins.” Fili leans in, till his forehead is touching Bilbo’s. “Tell what it is, and I’ll fix it.”  
  
Bilbo smiles sadly, sniffling, and reaches up to caress Fili’s cheek. “Love,” he says gently. “It’s nothing you can fix. Nothing  _anyone_  can fix, it’s just—the way of the world, I suppose.”  
  
“There’s nothing that’s unfixable. This room looked unfixable, but now—” Fili glances around them . . . then shrugs haplessly. “Well, it’s getting under way, at least.”  
  
Laughing, Bilbo kisses Fili’s nose. “You’re ridiculous . . . and I love you.”  
  
“I love you, too. You’re mine, for-ever. And . . . I’m yours. Always.”  
  
Bilbo sighs and looks away once again. “Don’t say that—don’t tempt fate.”  
  
Fili scoffs. “There’s  _no fate_. No fate but what we, you and I,  _make_. Look at me, love.” And when Bilbo finally does. Fili smiles and kisses him sweetly. “I will always love you, and you, I hope, will always love me.”  
  
“Of  _course_  I will!” Bilbo says fervently, sniffling again. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, Fili, and never will again.”  
  
“And I feel the same way. My love for you grows stronger and stronger with each passing day. It’s grown so much that it’s colored the way I see the world. I can’t draw breath, but my heart tells me how much and how deeply it loves, and—Durin’s beard, Bilbo . . . will you marry me?”  
  
Bilbo blinks. Then blinks again, leaning back in Fili’s arms, his face scrunched up and puzzled.  
  
“Er, we’ve already done that.”  
  
Fili grins. “Not properly, we haven’t.” Then he’s putting Bilbo down carefully, himself going down on one knee. He reaches under his mail shirt and into the breast pocket of his ceremonial tunic and comes out with a plain ring that nonetheless shines brightly even in the dim lighting, and makes the darkness of the room seem to withdraw, slightly.  
  
“What—?” Bilbo starts to say, then falls silent as Fili takes his hand and kisses it before sliding the ring on his ring finger. It’s a perfect fit, and Fili isn’t surprised. Grinning once more, he looks up into his love’s startled eyes, one hand holding Bilbo’s, the other covering his own heart, from which he speaks.  
  
“Will you marry me for the second time, Bilbo Baggins? Make me the happiest Dwarf in this world twice in a lifetime?”  
  
Bilbo really looks confused, now. “But—we’ve already got married—you’ve already proposed—”  
  
“I was drunk at the time,” Fili throws in ruefully.  
  
“And I nonetheless said  _yes_. Love,” Bilbo reaches out to caress Fili’s face again. “We’re already married.”  
  
“Well, I propose a  _second_  marriage—a renewal of our original marriage. One that we can invite _all_  our friends and families and well-wishers to.” Fili turns his face a little to kiss Bilbo’s palm. “I want to commit myself to you—enjoin our lives  _for-ever_  in front of the world. So that it’s clear in their minds and in yours that we  _are_  eternal. Like the sun in the sky, and the Earth at our feet.”  
  
“But—but—” Bilbo blushes. “Fili—I don’t know what to say. . . .”  
  
Fili’s grin turns into a fond smile. “Say  _yes_ , my dear Hobbit.”  
  
That vulnerable sparkle is back in Bilbo’s eyes. “But what if—”  
  
“It’ll never happen.” Fili shakes his head. Bilbo laughs.  
  
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask!”  
  
“Don’t need to, because it’ll never happen,” Fili says firmly.  
  
“But—”  
  
“ _Never_. Not.  _Ever_.”  
  
Bilbo makes a rude noise and rolls his eyes. “You’re being utterly ludicrous!”  
  
“Is that a  _no_ , then?” Fili tries to make a joke of it, but can’t hide from himself the way his heart climbs into his throat.  
  
“Of  _course_  it’s not a  _no_!” Bilbo laughs again, a brief bark of sound as the shine in his eyes runs down his pale cheeks. “The answer is always  _yes_ , when it comes to you, Fili. I’m yours for as long as you want me. However you want me.”  _However long that may be_ , goes unspoken, but Fili hears it, nonetheless. He stands up and pulls Bilbo into his arms, kissing him passionately.  
  
“I know I can’t make you believe I mean for-ever in any period of time less than exactly that, but since happen to have for-ever to prove it to you, I suppose that’s not really a problem.” Fili looks into Bilbo’s eyes. “Though I do wish I could make you believe a  _little_  sooner than that, that I will _always_  love you. You, and no other.”  
  
Bilbo sniffles again and looks down at Fili’s chin. Reaches up and smooths his beard.  
  
“There’re no guarantees, this side of the Havens, Fili. We could be parted by duty—by  _death_ —and—”  
  
“ _And_  a lot of things. But we mustn’t let that stop us from loving freely, and with all of our hearts for whatever time we have. To do anything else is to waste what we’ve been given.” Fili kisses Bilbo again. “I will  _not_  waste one moment with you. And I won’t let you waste one moment with me, either, worrying about what could be. Now:  _Will_  you, Bilbo Baggins,  _marry me_?”  
  
“Yes,” Bilbo says plainly, without hesitation, tears still running down his face. Fili catches them until they finally, finally stop, and Bilbo looks up at him with a mixture of wariness and hope.  
  
“I love you. I can’t bear to think of losing you, Fili.”  
  
“Then  _don’t_  think of that, my love! Think of what you  _have_  instead of what you might lose.” Fili takes Bilbo’s hand and raises it to his lips to kiss it again, then looks at the ring that shines thereon. “You know,” he says softly. “My father mined the mithril from this very mountain, and forged this ring himself . . . for my mother.”  
  
Bilbo’s reddened eyes grow as wide as saucers. “She—Dis—this is  _her_  engagement ring?”  
  
Fili nods. “And now, it’s yours. As am I.”  
  
Placing his hand on Fili’s mailed shoulder, Bilbo gazes at the ring with wonder. “It’s so beautiful. Simple, yet . . . perfect.”  
  
“Yes,” Fili says softly, his eyes never leaving Bilbo’s face. “Yes, it is.”  
  
Blushing, Bilbo looks up into Fili’s eyes, not even breaking their gaze when Fili scoops him up again.  
  
“I’ve never planned a wedding before,” Bilbo says hesitantly, and Fili chuckles.  
  
“Neither has Kili, and he’s off to a fine start, to hear Bofur tell it.”  
  
Bilbo rolls his eyes. “Oh, now, I won’t turn into  _Kili_ , if that’s what you’re implying! I love him like he’s my own brother, but he’s gone absolutely barking when it comes to that damned wedding—believe you me, I will  _not_  be turning into Kili.”  
  
“Well, that’s good for many, many reasons,” Fili mutters, shuddering at the thought of marrying his brother.  
  
“Though . . . I suppose he’s got the right idea, wanting to invite the people that mean so much to him into the happiest day of their lives, and. . . .” Bilbo’s eyes widen in a very scary way. One that Fili—and no doubt far more often poor Bofur—has seen before. Most notably in his brother’s face when he’s had an idea for some grand, new ridiculous thing for the wedding.  
  
“I’ve just had an idea, love!” Bilbo says in an excited rush. “I mean, we’ll certainly have to run it by Kili and Bofur, first, but it makes so much  _sense_ , I don’t see how they could say no! And it saves everyone from making  _two_  trips to Erebor—”  
  
“No,” Fili says, having a very strong feeling about where this is going. And he doesn’t like it. Not one bit. But Bilbo’s looking at him with those happy, hopeful eyes and . . . “No. Just— _no_.”  
  
“Oh, but you haven’t even heard what I was going to propose—”  
  
“Don’t need to, love, because it’s never going to happen.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“ _Never_.” Fili puts his foot down as he strides, Bilbo still in his arms, out of the gloomy little haven. And then, just because he can’t bear the sad look on Bilbo’s normally cheerful face, feels the need to add: “Kili, for one, would never allow it.”  
  
“Well, we don’t know till we ask, do we?”  
  
“But we’re not  _going_  to ask—”  
  
“I promise,” Bilbo says, stealing a teasing, tempting kiss. One that makes Fili moan, and feel extra grateful for his concealing tunic and mail. “I won’t get Wedding Fever. But really, this makes perfect, practical sense: a—”  
  
“Please, my love, don’t say it—”  
  
“— _double wedding_!” Bilbo bounces a little in Fili’s arms, tucking his face into the crook of Fili’s neck once more, with a happy little sigh. “Doesn’t that sound brilliant, Fili?”  
  
“Actually, it  _sounds_  . . . like a very good idea,” Fili says, swallowing his resignation in favor of just being glad that, for the moment, anyway, Bilbo’s mind is free of  _what-ifs_  and his heart free of megrims. He kisses the crown of Bilbo’s head as they emerge into a main corridor, one that, without going past either the throne room or the Library as usual, will still take them to their rooms. “A very good idea, indeed.”  
  
“Mm . . . and we’ll be passing Kili and Bofur’s rooms before we get to ours, so we can even stop in and tell them all about it,” Bilbo says, nuzzling Fili’s neck. Fili, who mutters  _damnit!_  to himself, and wishes he’d just gone to their rooms the usual way. “Maybe we could even start comparing our other ideas for the wedding with theirs—”  
  
“We have  _other ideas_  already?”  
  
“Of  _course_  we do, love, of course!” Bilbo laughs brightly. “It is, after all, our wedding. Our joint wedding. No, our  _tandem wedding_. Well, we’ll think of something appropriate to call it later. Perhaps Kili will have some nice ideas, eh?”  
  
Fili represses a groan, reflecting that this is indeed, a  _for-ever_  love. It  _must_  be. “Perhaps he will, at that, love. . . .”  
  
“Oooh, and then maybe we could all talk about color scheme for each set of grooms’ men’s suits, and  _whether or not it should match the color scheme for the Great Hall_!” Bilbo swings his fuzzy feet excitedly, planting a happy  _smack_  of a kiss on Fili’s Adam’s-apple. “And  _then_ , oh, love, we’ll of course,  _have_  to discuss the invitations list. . . .”  
  



End file.
